


An Orphan in the Storm

by Dollar_Day



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon - TV, F/M, Gallifreyan Culture (Doctor Who), House Stark, Post-Time War (Doctor Who), Queen in the North, Referenced Time War (Doctor Who), Slow Build, Slow Burn, Time War Angst (Doctor Who), Winterfell, post-season 8
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-04-23 14:23:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19152826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dollar_Day/pseuds/Dollar_Day
Summary: It has been two years since the end of the Long Night and the beginning of Sansa Stark's coronation as Queen of the North. In the time since her reign began, she had carved out a place for herself and her people despite the hardships of rebuilding after the long succession of wars that had plagued the country. But her people are still ill-prepared for the long winter. And strange reports from the Wall, as well as pressure from her own vassals to produce an heir, threaten to undermine the peace she had helped fight for.And amidst all of this, a new arrival at Winterfell brings with him the wonders and terrors of a brave new world. Just who is this otherworldly stranger?





	1. A Stranger in the Snow

**Author's Note:**

> I own neither Game of Thrones nor Doctor Who, save for my own original characters.

**The North**

**307 AC**

Wreckage and fire surrounded him as he fell through the doors and into the darkness outside. The crash was more violent than he expected and far more fatal. He could feel every ache and pain, every cut and wound, every damaged organ from the crash and the ones he received from the war. Falling to his knees, he felt a familiar warmth in his hearts as it spread throughout his body. Raising his arms, he saw his pale and cut skin become enveloped in an amber glow.

Breathing heavily, he felt drained of every last bit of energy as he tried to stand up. But he couldn’t find the strength. His vision was failing, as he felt blood begin to trickle out from his eyes like tears.

He felt a tingle of energy beginning to pour out of his hands. And soon that tingle became a rush as his hands along with his face was encompassed by the swirling waves of golden light.

_Not again…_

And like a fire roaring in the darkest night, an explosion of light penetrated the dark. The swirling waves of golden energy gave way to what looked like the streak of an inferno.

His arms and head, outstretched and shooting beams brighter than the sun, felt as if they were on fire. His whole body soon felt like it was burning. The pain came as no surprise. After all, he’d done this five times before. But there was something different about this time.

It felt more painful than ever before.

 _It should’ve been expected_ , he thought to himself. Every cell in his body was dying which meant that now every cell had to burn. And out of that blazing inferno, he would be reborn. He burnt so that he could become anew.

Closing his eyes, he let out a mighty scream of anguish as the streams of light shooting out of his body gave one final blaze of light before subsiding. Taking his first breath, he felt his vision fade as the faint shapes of what he could see was his surroundings turned to a dark void.

His eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed onto the ground, a new man.

* * *

**Winterfell**

From the outside, the blizzard winds howled like the cries of a dire wolf. Yet from inside her personal study from within the Great Keep, it only seemed to whistle softly. Sorting through a seemingly indomitable stack of scrolls and papers, the ruling monarch of the North carried on with the last of her duties for the day.

“Your Grace.” One of her handmaidens entered the room with a letter in hand. “A raven has just arrived from House Forrester.”

By the tone in her old friend’s voice, the Queen knew what the letter contained.

“Thank you, Jeyne.” She responded with a tired smile, as she accepted the letter. Her handmaiden left with a small bow and with a sigh she continued with her work.

Noticing just how dark it had become outside, she felt the familiar pang of concern for her people. With the Final Targaryen War having only ended two years ago, the chaos of the period left the people of the North still ill-prepared for the current winter. There were still areas of the North ravaged by the civil wars. And the smallfolk in those lands were starving daily, despite the fact that the amount of wheat they had managed to store up would last another two years. This coupled with the fact that some of the maesters at Oldtown have stated that this winter might prove to be the longest in living memory only added to her stress.

Thankfully she had entered in negotiations with the help of the Six Kingdoms to organize a grain supply to begin deliveries from Pentos and Volantis. Her people desperately needed the extra food and if the North had any chance to survive the coming harshness of winter then this trade agreement would be it.

 _The North shall prevail._ She thought to herself.

Her confidence in her people and in herself was well founded. After all, for Queen Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell and Red Wolf of the North, such challenges were the foundation of her resolve.

But there was one stack of letters on her desk that was testing her limits. Piled up into a short heap on her desk, stood letters from various noble lords sent to her from, not just the North, but from all across Westeros itself. And every letter contained the same fundamental query; her hand in marriage.

Despite the unquestioned nature of her reign, many lords of the court had begun to wonder if she would take a husband. For the most part, lords’ interest in such affairs didn’t come out of resistance to her rule, but rather the desire to see the Stark bloodline fully cemented once more as the true Wardens of the North. And for that she would require an heir.

She gave out a soft sigh as she once more gazed upon the various messages from her suitors. She had yet to announce her intentions to marry at all, never mind to whom. If she appeared reluctant than it wasn’t without cause. Her very first betrothal was to a mad, cruel tyrant. Her first marriage, while not unpleasant, was to an imp. And her last marriage was one that she’d… rather not dwell on.

Taking a deep breath, she struggled to push all thoughts of _him_ out of her head.

_He can’t hurt you anymore. He’s long dead._

A knock on the door from the guard outside shook her out of her den of thoughts. “Your Grace, Maester Wolkan would like to see you. He says it’s urgent.”

“Send him in.” She called out, putting away papers and ledgers.

The graying maester walked in, the Valyrian chains around his neck ringing softly as he moved.

“Maester Wolkan, what is it that’s so urgent that you would ask me at nightfall?”

 “I apologize for interrupting, my Queen, but I had some concerns about Maester Otho… the one who was supposed to arrive earlier this afternoon.”

Sansa briefly recalled that a raven had arrived two weeks ago from the Citadel informing her that the Order of Maesters would be sending one of their own ranks to study the appearance of, what they described as, “a new celestial body” in the heavens.

“Yes,” She replied, nodding at the memory. “Vaguely. What of it?”

“Well, when he failed to arrive earlier today, I had assumed that he had postponed his trek to Winterfell due to the storm.” He carried on nervously.

“Not an unreasonable assumption.”

 “Y-yes, Your Grace.” He stuttered, as he continued. “O-only, a raven had just arrived from the maesters studying at the old Dreadfort stating that Maester Otho left in the morning for Winterfell, despite the warnings they gave him of the blizzard.”

“I see.” She nodded, her face resting in thought. “You fear that Maester Otho was caught in the storm and you want to send out a search party for him.”

“Yes, Your Grace, and as soon as possible.”

Sansa sat back in her chair in silence. Her mind deep in contemplative thought, she brought her hand up to her chin as she considered what course of action to take. Her red hair reflected the faint blaze of the fireplace inside her study, as she considered the maester’s plea.

“Y-you-your Grace…” He stuttered, the mixture of the cold and his nerves serving to worsen the condition. “I-I wouldn’t dream of-of demanding – ”

“Wolkan,” She held her hand up, “I don’t think you’re being demanding at all. However, I cannot send out a rescue party in this weather.”

“Your Grace, please. Maester Otho carries more than just tomes about stars and the heavens.” He paused, seeing that his plea had managed to catch the Queen’s attention. “He also carries a special medical text that may help with finding out the cause of the recent outbreak of bloody flux from the soldiers of the Night’s Watch.”

Sansa paused for a moment as she considered the implications. A raven from Castle Black a month ago had made the situation amongst the guardians of the Wall clear. Given that her brother was a member of the watch, as well as the service the order had provided during the Battle of Ice and Fire, her sympathies to the Night’s Watch more than eminent.

With a sigh, she looked up at the maester. “Very well, Wolkan. I’ll send out riders to search for Maester Otho as soon as the storm clears. But not a second before.”

Her answer seemed to be enough to alleviate the scholar’s worries. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

And with a nod of her head, he left her study.

Sitting back in her chair, she stared at the mountains of paperwork piled up on her desk. When she took up the mantle as Queen of the North, she thought that she had already learned most of what was needed to rule a kingdom and she was prepared to serve her people. One thing she was not aware of was the sheer amount of _paperwork_ that came with the title. As much as it frustrated her to no end, she dealt with it in stride. After all, her boredom was preferable to her people’s suffering.

Taking a moment to sort the last of her ledgers, letters, contracts, treaties, and so forth, she stood up from her chair and poured herself a cup of water.

She had a lot on her mind, more than the long winter and its potential famine. It had been almost a year since she heard from the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. Usually she understood that the duties that came with such a command demanded the full attention of those in that position. But when news of the flux came from Jon Snow’s second-in-command, it did raise concern in her.

 _What if Jon has been taken ill as well?_ The letter she received indicated nothing of the such, but she found it disconcerting, nonetheless.

And then there was the rising issue of the Cult. Ever since the Lady Melisandre played her part in defending Winterfell from the Army of the Dead, followers of the Red Priestess’s religion had grown. Not substantially enough to warrant concern over any religious upheaval, but enough to be noticed by Sansa herself.  But it wasn’t the followers of the Lord of Light that concerned her. It was the splinter group that had arisen from them.

They called themselves the Cult of the Unnamed. Apparently, this sect had arisen in the wake of the War of Ice and Fire as a syncretic faith focused on the Red Religion’s prophecy of “The Prince That Was Promised” and the Many-Faced God of the Braavosi. Under normal circumstances, the appearance of a new religion wouldn’t be too much cause for concern. Ever since the North was declaration of sovereignty in the Great Council of 305, religious tolerance was upheld as one of the major laws of the land.

However, since the appearance of the Cult, an increase in crime and religious intolerance had been noted among the villages and fortresses of the North. And the lords of some of the minor houses had sent warning of the religious upheaval that had begun to spread in their land.

Now, as of yet no signs of the Brotherhood had appeared in her home of Winterfell. But given the struggle of rebuilding following the chaos of the years prior, she feared that the appearance of such a sect would only be inevitable.

Taking a sip of water, she stood up and walked out of her study. Passing through the torch-lit halls of the ancient Stark home, she made her way to her parents’ bedroom door. Stepping inside the room, she allowed herself to bathe in the memories that it brought her. Those echoes of the past would ease her mind during moments of uncertainty, and ever since she was named Queen of the North those feelings of doubt were increasing in occurrence. Recalling those old summer days brought about a bittersweet wave of comfort, as she let the words of her late mother and father guide her as she ruled.

Sansa quietly sat on the bed in the middle of the room. Taking in the silence of the castle at nightfall, she allowed her mind to wander through the recollections of what was once her life. She sat in silence for a long time, reflecting on the choices she had to make.

_I know how important having an heir is to ensuring peace. But I don’t want to have to marry, if it’s just to become another broodsmare._

Her eyelids felt heavy as she felt the weight of the paths presented in front of her. She knew that the power to choose was firmly in her hands. Yet the fear that her choice, no matter how right it seemed to be now, would lead to disaster always haunted her.

_I understand why father always seemed so grim when dealing with matters of the state._

Moving back from the foot of the bed toward the center, she lay down on top of the covers. Feeling the weight of the kingdom, and the choices she had to make, she felt herself drifting off to sleep.

_No, not sleep. I’ll only rest my eyes for a moment. Only a moment…_

And in that moment, Sansa would dream.

* * *

**Somewhere Between Winterfell and the Old Dreadfort**

The harsh winds of winter seemed to strike at his face from all sides as he trudged through the snow-covered fields that lay beyond the forests of the Dreadfort. Huddling his books close to him, underneath his furs and cloak, the man regretted continuing his journey to Winterfell before the blizzard struck. His horse had died three miles ago and as such he was resorted to making the final push on foot. When he realized that the gold lining of the tome he carried had stuck onto his skin through the fabric of his robe, did he regret not taking shelter.

_Well, it’s too late for those kinds of thoughts._

Deciding that the last leg of his trek back to Winterfell had been all for naught, he endeavored to find some cover from the storm. To the west, east, and north, all he could see was pure white. But to the south, he saw a blur of grey that streaked across the plain howling white of the blizzard. Tugging the furs closer to his person, he stalked south towards the mysterious blur, hoping that he would finding some form of shelter.

As he stumbled closer to the stone-grey streak, he saw the outlines of a rock outcropping. But it was the blur that extended to the sky that made him hesitate about going further. As he neared the rock face, he was greeted with the sight of smoke erupting from it. Reaching the source of the smoke, he was greeted with the massive mouth of an underground cave. The smoke he had seen had seemed to be shooting out of it, like the furious fires of the Northern Capitol’s hearths.

The wave of warmth that hit him as he entered the cave encompassed him with relief. Reaching under his cloak, he carefully peeled off the gilded tome from his person. The sting he felt as the golden hilt and corners peeled off parts of his skin was only mediated by the curiosity that lay before him in the cavern below. Placing the book near the cave’s mouth, he shed his furs and peered at the faint glow of light in the darkness below.

_The smoke is coming from further inside the cave. Which means there’s a fire down there…_

Seeking to capture this source of warmth, he carefully made the shallow descent into the cavern. Being careful to watch his footing, he noticed the faint outline of stone pieces and shattered boulders scattered throughout the floor, large stalactites laying in broken pieces. And at the center of all the rubble lay a most peculiar sight.

A small bronze sept, about the size of a large spire, stood in front of him. Or at least he thought it was a sept. Taking its pointed shape into account there little else he thought it could’ve been. He knew that the people of the North worshiped the Old Gods, and the dictates of their religion had no need for the construction of septs or temples. Its opened door revealing to be the source of the smoke, he could see a faint red glow from inside accompanied by the faint ring of what sounded like a tower bell.

But what caught his attention was the sight of an armored man collapsed in front of the doors to the structure.

Turning the body over, his years of training and study of the physical sciences at the Citadel began to kick in. He grabbed the man’s wrist and could feel the faint beat of a pulse.

_He’s still alive…_

From what he could tell, there were no other injuries, not cuts or bruises. Looking up at the slightly ajar door of the otherworldly structure, he drew in a breath and figured that whatever happened to the poor soul took place inside it. Despite this, he made sure to be careful when dragging the unconscious man away from the mysterious spire.

Illuminated by the faint glimmers of white light that seeped into the cave from the snowstorm outside, he started a more thorough medical examination. Grabbing his wrist once again to ensure the steadiness of his pulse, he was surprised to discover that it was beating at a rate far faster than normal. Or indeed far faster than what ought to have been humanly possible.

Turning back to the sept, he stood up and inspected the structure itself. Keeping a safe distance away, he walked around the structure, his eyes marveling the architectural oddity that lay before him. As he walked around spire, he noticed that it was octagonal in structure. His thoughts of it being some sort of misshaped building for worship of the Seven were immediately proven invalid. Circling the structure once more, he cautiously placed a hand on the spire itself. He blinked in surprise as realized that it was humming.

All thoughts of the freezing cold seemed to evaporate as he stared at the small tower of bronze before him. He knew that the skills need to construct such a tower lay beyond the capabilities of any architect in the North. His thoughts immediately turned back to the Red Keep of King’s Landing, and how it was with the magics of Aegon the Conqueror that allowed such a feat of engineering to be accomplished at all. But the knowledge for the at sorcery died long ago _._

 _And two years on, the Red Keep was still a broken ruin of ash and debris_.

Perhaps it was constructed by the followers of R’hllor. Adherents of the Red God were few in the North, but they were not uncommon. He remembered reading in his studies in the Citadel of how a Red Priestess aided the Army of the Living during the Battle of Ice and Fire.

_Perhaps this is a dedication to their Lord of Light?_

Some pure guttural instinct from within seemed to whisper something else. Turning back to the armored man sleeping before him, he knew it couldn’t have been that simple.

_And just who are you, my sleepy friend?_

Sighing, he knew that there was still one more thing he could do to try and wrestle out some answers from this mystery. Taking a step toward the slightly ajar door, the sound of a massive bell beckoning him toward it. Pausing as his hands reached the door, he swallowed his fear and slowly pushed the it open.

_By the Gods…_

Red light pierced the darkness of the cave as it emanated from inside of the not-temple. The sound of the massive sept-like bell echoed from inside the spire to throughout the cave as he stared wide-eyed at the sight before him.

It seemed as if…

_… it was something from another world._

* * *

**Off the coast of White Harbor**

The snows of Northern Westeros were different from her home of Volantis. She’d ventured all across Essos in service to the Lord of Light, but this was the first time she was called by R’hllor to sail across the Narrow Sea.

As her ship, sailed into White Harbor, she looked up at the cold grey skies above. Even under the fog of winter she knew that the Shining World was still there in the heavens, shining like an endless star. The priestess closed her eyes in prayer, or perhaps reverence.

It was in the flames of the Red Temple that she received a New Prophecy from the Lord of Light, which came as a shock to her. Her last vision from the Lord, told her to go to Mereen and to spread the news of the former Queen Daenarys Targaryen’s good works. She had not received any visions since that day, and she assumed she never would again. After all, with the prevention of the Second Long Night and the death of the Mother of Dragons, she had assumed that the Red God would be silent for a time.

How foolish she had been to assume as such.

Through the flames, she witnessed the most atrocious of visions. A mighty and ancient empire, shining under an orange sky. Horrible creatures of death and destruction encased in cages of metal. A war of unspeakable and unending horror. Beasts and demons emerging from the cesspits of other worlds. Great ships tearing the skies apart. A good man breaking his vow, his oath, his promise. A soldier, lost and afraid, falling through the tangled webs of time, and landing in a world of winter, only to die and be reborn. And two words. Two simple words that seemed to challenge the traditions of her faith entirely.

Lady Kinvara pondered those words as she pulled her hood over her head as her ship docked into the harbor. And she suspected that it would not be the last time she would hear them.

_Valar morghūlis._

_Valar dohaeris._

**_Valar glaesis._ **

* * *

**Winterfell**

_Sansa…_

_Sansa…_

_Sansa!_

Her eyes felt like they were wretched open by the memories long past, as she was shaken by what she dreamed would be the firm grasp of the Stranger himself. Instead, peaking through the faint light of morning, she was greeted with the worried eyes of Jeyne Poole.

“Sansa! Thank the gods!” Her handmaiden replied, slightly out of breath as if she had just been running.

“Jeyne?” Sansa replied groggily, having just realized that she had fallen asleep in her parents’ old room. “What hour is it?”

“It’s the first hour after dawn, but that’s not why I’m here.’ Jeyne responded as she still struggled to regain her breath. “Maester Wolkan sent me to fetch you.”

“Why? What has happened?” Sansa asked, any trace of drowsiness vanishing from her face.

“The search party that was sent for the lost master has returned. They found him. Alive.”

“That’s a comfort to hear.” She began to straighten her dress out, as she stood up and began to smooth out the sheets on the bed. Noting the concern in her friend’s face, she asked. “Is there something wrong?”

“No! No, only…” She paused for a moment, as she considered how to continue. “… he wasn’t alone.”

Jeyne could see the confusion written on her Queen’s face. “They also found a man with the maester… an armored man. He appears to be in a very bad way. The Wolkan is tending to him right now.”

Sansa nodded, pressing her lips together as she silently pondered the best course of action to take. Looking back at her friend, she could tell that there was more to her apprehension then she was letting on.

“That’s not the only reason you are upset.” Sansa stated, leaving no room for question in her voice.

Jeyne took a deep breath, her anxieties having been caught, before continuing. “I- I shouldn’t say, Your Grace…”

Being addressed with her official title by her friend served to further Sansa’s concern. “Jeyne, whatever you have to say to me you can say without fear of – ”

“The man was wearing Lannister colors!”

Sansa blinked in shock at the outburst from her friend. Jeyne for her part, carried a look of concern as the pain and struggle of the recent civil wars and all that she had to endure were brought back to the forefront of her memories.

“Wolkan told me not to mention the fact to you, but… I-I couldn’t… Sansa…” The handmaiden struggled as she tried her hardest not to burst into tears, whether it was from the memories of her time at King’s Landing or from the thoughts of even moderately betraying the trust of her Lady, her Monarch, her closest friend.

Walking over to her, Sansa grabbed Jeyne’s hands without another word. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I – I saw the man for myself. I saw his red and gold armor.”

Sansa gave out a small sigh before she wrapped her friend in a brief yet tight hug. Hugging her back, Jeyne took the moment to calm her nerves.  

“Very well. Tell Maester Wolkan to meet me at the Great Hall after he’s finished tending to the stranger. He and I shall discuss the matter of our new guest then.”

With a nod of her head, she curtsied and left Sansa alone in the bedroom. Turning away from the door, she sighed and stared out the window into the grey morning of her kingdom. Ever since the recapture of Winterfell by her family, she had not viewed the frigid landscape with airs of foreboding. But the arrival of this supposed Lannister soldier reawakened old wounds. The War of the Five Kings had long since ended, but its scars had yet to fully heal.

She felt her own fingers linger over the eight-year old scar, that had yet to properly heal, upon her right arm.

_Has it really been eight years since then?_

Looking at her reflection in her parents’ bedroom mirror, she was greeted with the sight of a woman who was once a girl named Sansa Stark. It was a familiar sensation. There were times when she gazed into a mirror and the person staring back was her, but also not her. She would see the girl she once was but fail to recognize how she had become the woman she had become now. Even having lived through that change, she found that despite having the strength to survive and rule, she had yet to reconcile herself with that change without feeling alien to herself.

And yet, she had still endeavored to be the good queen she had promised herself to be long ago.

Refusing herself any more self-contemplations, she turned around and walked out the door.

* * *

_A single voice seemed to echo from a place so old and so far away._

_“I speak to you now from the final days of Gallifrey…”_

_The world seemed to scurry and flay, the skies were wrenched open and death unleashed. He saw the undoing of peoples and empires. Stars falling upon the innocent and the dying. An ancient, dead god resurrected and returned to glory. A child made of the very stuff of nightmares enraptured a screaming madman in its jaws. An agent of chaos and control was reborn and soldiered until he became a coward and ran. A good man died in a blaze of fire and metal and was reborn, a warrior and unnamed. And the voices… oh, the voices plagued his soul and consumed his mind with sorrows and agonies._

_They were voices of pasts long forgotten, of futures that no one would live to see._

_And amidst all the madness, he saw the final words. The words that were uttered by the last good man to take up arms in the war. The words that served as a testimony to the war’s end. The words that seemed to follow him from the final day._

_…_

There was a rush and a pull, like the feeling one gets from falling at a great height and seeing the ground beckoning toward them. Darkness seemed to rush past him, and a light appeared. It glowed a bright golden white, and it felt like being incinerated. His eyes shot open and he was greeted with the world around him.

The first thing he noticed was just how _cold_ it was. A darkened room, lit by candle, and himself lying on a small bed. On the other side of the room was a small fireplace, it being the only source of heat. He noticed that he was stripped down to his undergarments. And that he coated in a fountain of sweat. He could feel the erratic rhythm of his breath.

His eyes darting back and forth across the room, he felt delirious as he stood up. With his mind racing at what must have felt like the speed of light, he tried to refocus his mind on what had happened.

But as he turned his mind toward the past, he saw only darkness, he felt only pain.

It was in his head at first and bringing up a hand to his temple, he rubbed that aching portion of his head. But there was something odd about the action. It was as if it was performed by the will of someone else, with the arms of someone else. To him, the sensation was, for lack of a better understanding, foreign yet familiar.

And then a wave of pain seemed to erupt from inside his torso.

He let out a cry of pain as his legs gave way and he collapsed onto the ground, clutching at his chest and bringing down some of the blanket that covered him. It felt like he was being stabbed by a thousand hot pokers all over his bare body. If he had to describe it in a word, he would’ve said that it was akin to being remade.

He let out another cry of pain, as the sensation rippled through his body again and his vision was lost to him once more.

_Is this death?_

He could hear the room’s only door open suddenly in front of him. Through the haze and blur that plagued his eyes, he could see the bare form of another man. He could tell that the newcomer was a soldier, as he heard the clang of steel.

“Ser, are you alright?”

He wanted to answer, to speak, to scream, but the pain that encompassed him was far too much for him to tolerate.

“Quick! Send for the maester!” He heard the soldier call out to someone outside. “Tell him that the guest is awake.”

It didn’t matter who he would bring, for he knew that the process he was going through would be next to impossible to deal with adequately. After all, they weren’t his people.

_My people? My people… I’m not with my people._

Feeling himself being helped up to his feet by the guard, he felt a resurgence of energy as the pain momentarily subsided. In his concern, he felt the blanket being wrapped over his shoulder as he was propped up against the bed, his eyes blinking rapidly at the sudden burst of life from within.

From outside the bedroom, he could hear the footsteps of someone approaching. Someone else had entered the room, someone he hoped had some degree of medical training. His eyes attempting to shift and focus, he felt his mind slow down and a cool hand being placed upon his forehead.

“By the gods! He’s burning up!” He heard the small shuffle of fabric as the new arrival placed something into the soldier’s hand. “Let him drink.”

He could feel the leather-gloved hand of the soldier next to him place the wineskin in his hand. He shakily brought it up to his lips as he felt the cool water inside fall upon his lips and in his mouth.

“Alright, lad. That’s enough of that.” The man, _the maester_ , said as he readied a damp rag.

Placing the wineskin down, he felt his breathing start to even out and his body cool down as the maester placed the wet cloth on his forehead.

“Not to worry, ser. This all just to help you cool down.” His voice sounded old yet comforting. “Soon your fever will be no more.”

No more.

_No more._

_No more!_

**_“No more!”_ **

And in that moment, between the maester’s pause of breath and the words he was about to say, a flurry of memories came rushing in. Centuries upon centuries of life, death, peace, and war. Endless war.

“No more.”

“T-that’s right, ser. You just need a bit of rest and you’ll be back on your feet in no time.”

“No more!”

His breathing seemed to increase as the pain of it all came back. From the chaos of the war to his last death trying to pierce the Void to his last regeneration. And then he remembered how he had ended up here in this foreign world. In a hurry, he shot up to his feet, pushed past the maester and the guard, and ran out of the room.

The detailed forms and of the world returned to him, his vision still blurred to an extent, however. His mad dash through the hallways, dodging guards and guests, led him to discover that he had been brought to a castle. The stone walls and candle lit rooms made it evident that this society was relatively primitive.

Not that he was exactly one to judge though. Here he was, an officer of the oldest and mightiest race that ever walked the universe, reduced to a fugitive wrapped in a blanket.

His desperation grew as he heard the shuffling bootsteps of soldiers, soldiers who he assumed had been sent out by the castle’s ruler to find him. He had no time to deal with such distractions, as far as he was concerned. He began to open doors, trying to look for an exit before he arrived at a wooden door.

Pulling the door open, he was greeted with an open room and the shocked face of what appeared to be a young woman.

They both stood in shock, each looking at the other.

And before either of them could utter a word or consider their next move, the wave of burning pain erupted once more from his body and he seized up in pain. Leaning on the door, he cried out in agony. He could feel the rapidity of his both his hearts pumping, that it sounded like a marching parade of drums.

The flurry of voices and memories returned, assaulting every synapse of his brain, as he slid down to the floor. As his eyes closed in agony, he could feel soft, yet firm hands grab on to his arms, trying to steady him.

“You there!” He heard the woman shout. “Fetch Maester Wolkan!”

“Yes, Your Grace!”

The pain in his chest felt like it was threatening to come out. Bringing his head up, he tried to open his eyes, daring himself to push past the pain of being reborn. He wanted to see the face of his maybe rescuer and potential captor.

When he opened his eyes, he was greeted with the bluest pair of eyes he had ever seen.

He felt his lip shaking, as another ripple of pain shot through him, this time trying to manifest itself. Seizing up in shock he felt the pain suddenly go away, and as he looked back up at the woman’s face, he breathed out a swirl of golden light.

The woman looked at him in shock, her eyes widening in a mixture of fear and confusion. She looked down at his hands, and following her line of sight, he saw them emanate with the same golden light he had just expelled. He so desperately wanted to explain, to make her see reason, to make her understand. But soon a wave of drowsiness swept over him.

Memories, words, voices, visions, all swarmed through his head and soon he was ready to slip back into the darkness once more. But before he could, the words that had chased him through the chaos of the final day and followed him through the void echoed once more in his mind. The two words that would herald the beginning of the end.

Fear laced in his voice, he looked square into the eyes of the woman who held him in her arms.

“No more.”

And in that moment, the Captain would dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's chapter one of this story done with. I've not really written fics for either DW or GoT before, so I will be spending some time trying to smooth out the voices of the characters, especially Sansa. 
> 
> There will be more to come, so let me know what you think.


	2. Marooned in Winter's Grasp

**Winterfell**

Sansa Stark had long since thought that she no longer had the capacity to be surprised by the strangeness of the world. In the wake of the Night King and his Army of the Undead, the Dragon Queen’s monstrous beasts, the magics of the Red Priestess Melisandre, and (if it was to be believed) the resurrection of her half-brother, her eyes were opened to the wondrous and terrifying potential of what lay beyond the place she had called home. But when the soldier that had been found with the missing maester burst through the doors of the Great Hall and collapsed onto the ground, she felt as if she had glimpsed an omen of stranger times to come. And when she held him steady in her arms, he exuded from his hands and mouth what appeared to be the very light of the stars themselves.

_Just what manner of man is he?_

When Maester Wolkan entered the room, a squad of guards behind him, he took the stranger out of her hands and brought him back to his room to be treated.

“I apologize Your Grace.” The maester bowed, having made sure the strange man had fallen asleep and was treated for his fever. “He was delirious, not aware of his actions. His senses should return to him once he’s well rested.”

“It’s alright, Wolkan. I understand.” She kept her face neutral, channeling her sense of regal professionalism that had guided her from Lady of Winterfell to Queen of the North. “Will he awaken again?”

“Not any time soon, Your Grace.” He answered, packing away the last of his potions and draughts. “I gave him a cup of dreamwine laced with a hint of poppy to soothe the pain. It will allow him to rest until he recovers from the fever.”

“Very good, Wolkan.” Sansa nodded, satisfied that there would not be any further outbursts from the unconscious stranger. “Now, I do believe that we still have much to discuss in regards to our… new guest.”

Wolkan’s eyes widened as he recalled what he was supposed to be doing before he received news of the stranger’s awakening. “Y-yes, Your Grace.”

“I should also like to talk with Maester Otho as well.” With a final nod of his head, he led her to the missing maester’s quarters.

Sansa was determined to know more about the nature of this man that had been brought into her realm.

* * *

Wrapping the fur blankets provided for him closer around his shivering torso, Maester Otho stretched his hands closer to the warmth of the fireplace. Feeling the heat of the flames fight of the traces of winter still seeped in his blood, he steadied his breath in anticipation for the questions to come. He knew that the Queen of the North would want to know more about the man he found in the cave.

…

_Hauling the unconscious man away from the wreckage in the cave’s depths, Otho carefully set him down further near the entrance. His armor and helm were of a strange fashion. It appeared to be leather but upon closer inspection it felt tough enough to withstand the most refined Valyrian steel._

_However, it wasn’t just the quality of his armor that drew confusion, but the color as well. It was of a slightly maroon hue, wrapped tightly over his tunic and trousers – both of which were red in color. A series of dual yellow stripes seemed to be marked over the sleeves of his arms and trouser legs. This, along with three vertical bars running down on the crest of his helm, seemed to indicate some sort of rank. But the colors adorned on this stranger belonged to only one house in all of Westeros: the Lannisters._

_Despite this, he would be quite surprised if he was a soldier of that house or indeed if he was in the service of anyone belonging to this mortal plane. Turning his head back toward the cavernous depths, he thought further about the oddity in the darkness._

_He had closed the door to the strange spire temple inside, hoping and praying that what he witnessed was a mere hallucination brought about by nearly succumbing to the freezing climate outside. But he knew what he saw was real. Those doors were the entrance to another world…_

_…_

The creak of the door opening behind him brought his attention back from the memory. Turning around, he immediately stood up and bowed with respect to who he recognized as the Red Wolf of the North.

“Otho,” The grey figure of Maester Wolkan began, “allow me to introduce Queen Sansa Stark, First of Her Name, Lady of Winterfell and Sovereign of the Northern Kingdom.”

“Your Grace.” He replied with reverence, exorcising the last traces of frostbite from his veins.

“Maester Otho.” She smiled softly at him. “I trust you are feeling better after your ordeal. I know that southrons aren’t as well adapted to the harshness of Northern winters.”

“I had spent some years under the tutelage of Maester Aemon at Castle Black, Your Grace.” He answered, taking care to steady his breath. “I’ve had some experience with Northern winters.”

The Queen smiled softly at the mention of Castle Black.

“Of course, I tend to overestimate my own limits.” He continued. “I suppose some would call that hubris.”

“If you can count hubris as one of your vices, mayhaps you should reconsider a new field of work.”

“Contrary to what you’d expect, Your Grace, even hubris has a place amidst the humble Order of the Maesters.” He continued, in the throes of beginning a ramble. “It’s impatience that tends to be the undoing of most maesters.”

“And was it impatience that led you to think you could successfully traverse the path from the Ruins of the Dreadfort to Winterfell, just as a blizzard had begun?”

His stuttering attempts at protest and look of defeated pride was all the answer she needed, as she gave a small chuckle at the maester’s eccentric attitude.

“There’s no need to explain yourself, Otho.” She smiled once more at him, her kind eyes setting him at ease. “I wished to talk to you about the man you were found with.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” He nodded, fully expecting the interrogation. “What would you like to know?”

“How is it that you managed to come across this man in the first place?”

“When the storm was reaching its peak, I happened across a cave. Seeking shelter, I climbed inside and tried to keep warm.” He paused, debating whether he should tell the queen about the spire. “There’s…”

She seemed to notice his hesitation as she placed her hand on his.

“There was something else in the cave.” He began, squirming slightly under his furs. “I… I don’t know how else I can explain it, Your Grace.”

“Explain, what?” Her brow furrowed in concern and confusion. “Maester Otho – ”

“Your Grace…” He started, taking no care over interrupting the queen. “… it was something from another world.”

The queen’s face contorted itself into one of the most profound confusion, as she turned to the castle’s maester, almost as if she were trying to silently confirm to him that they had both heard the same words.

“From another world?” She asked, skepticism laced in her question. It was evident that the plainness of his answer has done little to abate the confusion on their faces.

“Yes.” He took a short breath before he continued. “Before I continue, you must understand that what I am about to tell you is merely what I saw with my own eyes. Just as I understand that without the burden of proof, you have no obligation to believe my words Your Grace.”

And so, Maester Otho recounted the events that led him to the cave and brought him to the impossible temple within.

* * *

“What do you make of this Wolkan?” Sansa asked as they made their way toward the direction of the Great Hall.

“I’m not entirely sure, Your Grace.” He followed, carrying the books that Otho had brought with him. “He seems to believe that he witnessed some sort of mystical wonder.”

“And you don’t?” She replied, pressing the scholar for his opinion.

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but it does sound rather fantastical.” He stuttered. “My studies in the Citadel taught me that one should not merely believe something purely because it has been said.”

“But you had not witnessed the White Walkers, yet you stood to help prepare the North for the danger that they presented.”

“Your Grace, the burden of proof that pointed toward their rested on the words of the most honorable man in Westeros. A man who was confirmed to be dead but was resurrected by some strange Eastern magics.” He explained. “I can believe that, for I’ve witnessed those wonders for myself, but this…”

Sansa remained silent as she walked, understanding what the maester was speaking of.

_Proof is required if we are to learn of the truth._

“Surely you don’t believe it, Your Grace.” Wolkan asked as they both left the tired maester to rest.

“To be quite honest, Wolkan, I’m not entirely sure I know what to believe.” Sansa answered, pondering Otho’s words. “I’m aware that what he says is not possible, but I can see in his eyes that he believes what he saw.”

“It could have been delirium. He was barely conscious when he was found.”

Sansa paused considering all that she had heard. For Otho to be delirious surely would be the most sensible explanation for what he had seen. Yet, there was some part of her that dared to believe his words. And then there was the matter of the incident that occurred that morning. Recalling the strange amber light that he, quite literally, _breathed_ out, she could not help but consider that perhaps there was some level of credence to the maester’s tale.

_But a spired temple in the depths of a cave, with interior dimensions larger than its exterior?_

Such a description came across as a fairytale from the very stories her mother would tell her when she was a child. But she knew by now that such stories always contained a kernel of truth. However, all these thoughts and possibilities left her no closer to understanding just who or what this man was. And so long as he remained unconscious, she would receive no answers.

“Perhaps.” She answered, not confident enough to voice her thoughts so long as there were still missing pieces to this puzzle. “Until this stranger has recovered and reawakened, I doubt that we can receive any more answers.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” He nodded, accepting her words before beginning to walk away to fulfill his day’s work.

“Oh, and Wolkan if I may ask for one final thing, regarding the… guest?” She asked, stopping the maester in his tracks. “I would ask if the blacksmith be allowed to inspect the stranger’s armor. It would at least help us identify if he is a Lannister soldier.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” With a final bow Wolkan walked toward the forge, leaving her to her thoughts.

* * *

In his bed, his mind fell to the effects of the dreamwine. Despite his incredible stillness, his mind tossed and turned, trapped within the realm of sleep. Some deep part of his brain knew that it was all a dream, yet he could not escape its reality.

…

_Explosions erupted around him as the invaders descended upon the city. Skyscrapers and towers, once the proud vanguards of the city skyline were now reduced to debris and ash. Soldiers and citizens alike were engulfed in a mass panic, as the civilians attempted to flee the chaos of the battle. From above, the enemy ships rained hellfire below as scout fighters strafed the crumbling defensive strongholds._

_Around him, the scattered remnants of the Blackstar Legion run to and fro amidst the carnage and hellfire raining on them from above. The inhabitants of the now ruined city scramble past them as the soldiers cover their retreat, shooting at the attacking ships._

_From his position near the outskirts of the Western District, he organized the last of his men into a makeshift defensive position. He had been the highest-ranking officer in the legion to survive the initial assault and somehow, despite the chaos, they managed to hold back the first wave of the enemy assault._

_“Captain!” A tired soldier called out to him, both of their faces coated in dust and blood._

_“Private.” Another explosion rocked the ground where they stood. “Did you manage to get word to the Obsidian Fleet?”_

_“I’m afraid not, sir! It appears that the whole planet was caught off guard by the attack!” He strained to voice his report over the cacophony of blaster fire. “The last remnants of the fleet have retreated to reinforce the Capitol.”_

_“Damnation.” The Captain muttered to himself. “We can’t hold out against their assault much longer.”_

_The two approached the makeshift map room in what was once an art museum. Passing the scattered mess of panicked soldiers and screaming wounded, he brought out a detailed holo-plan of the city._

_“Any word yet from Hedigar?” He asked the private. “We need to know if he’s made contact with the sky trenches?”_

_“No, sir. Hedigar is dead, and the sky trenches are gone.” The Captain’s eyes widened in shock and despair. “The entire Nexus Legion was wiped out in the first wave.”_

_The building shook under the wave of what sounded like a series of tremendous explosions, followed by the shrill noise of attack ships screaming overhead._

_“Sir!” Another soldier entered the map room, his face grim as he delivered the news. “Sir, one of their cruisers managed to break through our inner defenses. The battalion is in full retreat.”_

_“Fuck.” He spat out upon hearing the news. Running his hands through his hair, he looked back at the soldier. “Gather what troops you have left, as well as any survivors from the other legions, and have them defend the Western District. We need to contain their assault here for as long as we can, so we can provide cover for the civilians to evacuate.”_

_“Yes, sir!” He saluted the Captain and ran off to carry out his orders._

_Turning to the other soldier with him, he took out his personal commlink and placed it in his hand._

_“Soldier, I need you to help with the evacuation. Head for the old repair shops and use whatever working ships you can find. Bowships, warp-shuttles, gunships, even any of the old Type 40s, just get as many civilians as you can away from the city.”_

_His eyes felt heavy as he gave out what may be his final order._

_“And send a message to the High Council. Inform them that our status is Priority Omega.”_

_“Sir?” He could see the grim shock on the soldier’s face._

_“Tell them… tell them that Arcadia is fallen.”_

_He nodded as he shifted the heavy blaster over his shoulder and gave a final salute at his Captain._

_“And what are you going to do, sir?”_

_Taking a deep breath, the Captain turned around and stared at the soldier one last time._

_“I’m going to make a call to an old friend.”_

_Grabbing his rifle and putting on his helm, he made his way toward the center of the warzone. The ash and smoke blackened the night sky as the Captain ran into the dark and endless night._

…

From his closed eyes, his mind ached under the weight of the memories that the dreamwine induced. He wept silently as he dreamed of what was, unbeknownst to him, the final day.

* * *

**White Harbor – The Red Under-temple**

The religion of the Lord of Light was dominant throughout most of Essos. From the shadowlands of Asshai to the pyramids of Slavers’ Bay to the Free Cities on the shores of the Narrow Sea, the words of the One True God were heard throughout the continent. But the land of Westeros seemed to be to chaotic for the words of the Lord to be received in kind. As such, the priests and priestesses sent to convert the heathens of the West had to tread carefully for the peoples of this land were skeptical of anything new. And new gods were no exception to them, even if the gods were true.

In the North, the extent of the Red Religion was limited to the lands in and around White Harbor. The ruling lords of the port city, House Manderly, were surprisingly open to religious freedoms within the confines of their city. However, they made it clear that such freedoms extended only to the city itself. Beyond White Harbor, there was no guarantee that the various Houses of the North would be open to receiving the message of the Lord’s followers. And as such, the furthest place of worship for the Red God outside of the Harbor was in a cavern about three miles outside of the city walls.

Riding through the white woods, Kinvara stared at the snow-covered ridge ahead. The Lord had guided her here, so she trusted that her passage would be safe. The soft rustling of leaves in the woods surrounding her brought her attention to the shadows that had followed her.

She knew that was not alone in her journey. Ever since she had glimpsed the arrival of the soldier through the flames, she could feel the gaze of foreign eyes upon her. And she could feel foreign eyes upon her now.

Arriving at an opening in the forest, she paused for a moment as she waited for her guests to reveal themselves.

_“Valar morghūlis.”_

Kinvara raised her brow as the Valyrian greeting seemed to emanate from every point around her.

_“Valar dohaeris.”_

She replied in kind to no one, her words echoing throughout the surrounding woods.

Through the grey and white emptiness of the forest, figures seemed to emerge from the air, like winter frost from breath. Figures clad in furs and hides, looking more like the Wildlings that were spoken of from the lands of Always Winter than worshippers of R’hllor, greeted her from all sides. One of the men, his eyes wrapped in bandaged cloth, stepped forward and bowed.

“Milady. It has been a long time.”

“Indeed, it has.” She smiled at him, her soft words matching the soft fall of snow. “Come now. Is that any way to speak to an old friend?”

“It is the proper way to address the High Priestess of the Red Temple of Volantis.”

“Surely I thought we were too well acquainted to use such formalities.”

“We are, milady. It is merely the custom of the land.” He reached out his hand to help her off her horse.

“Ah, so this is the famous Northern hospitality I have heard so much about.” She smiled as she took his hand and dismounted. “How is it that you never showed any to me when you were in Volantis?”

“Because we were in Volantis, milady. Not in the North.”

With a final smirk, the bandaged-eye man led her to their destination, the Red Under-temple. Guiding her through the network of subterranean caverns, they emerged in a vast stony atrium. Lit by torches and a great bonfire in the center of the room, she dismissed the other red priests and priestesses, and ordered for the room to be emptied and to be alone with the flames.

“Is there anything else that you require?”

“No, that shall be all.”

Left alone in the prayer room, she bowed at inferno of flames in front of her. Her whispered prayers rolled off her tongue, the Valyrian intonations offered into the flames in the hope that her message would be received. And through the fire, she received her answer.

In the dancing light of the great flames, she saw…

_A great ship that sailed through seas of time captured by the hands of fanatics._

_A black star gazing upon the night sky, marooned in the grasp of winter._

_A wolf on a throne of stone and snow, its eyes set upon a still haven._

_And two soldiers broken by war, each being forced to make an impossible decision._

_And from their choices, the same two words that she had heard in Volantis…_

The world seemed to return to her in a flurry of shadowed darkness, guided only by the fire. She felt her breath to be heavy and sweat furrowed on her brow even amongst the chilled air of the Under-temple. The main hearth fire had seemed to dissipate once the visions had ended.

Getting up onto her feet, she gave out one last breath as she realized what the Lord had shown her. Staring into the ashes that were once ablaze, she whispered the words that were once whispered to her.

_“All men must live.”_

* * *

**Winterfell**

Sansa’s work of keeping the North in order was an admittedly welcome distraction from the mystery recovering in Winterfell’s guest chambers. Although she had to admit that she could do without the paperwork. Writing letters to liege lords on the status of their food reserves, receiving reports from tax collectors on the amount of revenue collected for the month, facilitating trade deals with grain merchants from the Free Cities, and all of this without the horror of remembering the suitors. It was all far more taxing on her patience than the usual worries of war and rebellion. Her only consolation from the monotony was the fact that so long as paperwork kept flowing into her office, peace and security would be guaranteed for a time.

Filling away one last report about a potential trade agreement between the North and Braavos, she watched the sun begin to set, soon finding her thoughts beginning to drift toward her time as queen and the responsibility of rule. Namely, the responsibility of having an heir. After the hell that she endured in her youth, being carted off from one terrible suitor to an absolutely monstrous husband, she was adamant on never having to marry for the sake of political convenience.

However, she was aware that in order to secure her rule and to ensure that no one questions the status of her family, she needed to have an heir. But at least she had one modicum of control in that she would be the one to choose. It was just unfortunate that all the choices were subpar, at best.

If she was being honest with herself, a small traitorous part of her brain still longed for the grand romances of her youth. But age and experience had tempered her perspective on such ideas of love and marriage. And the last person she dared to consider truly worthy of loving had died long ago.

_He was a hero too, in the end. But look at what daring to love heroes left your heart._

A knock on the door brought her out of the turmoil of her memories. Realizing that a single tear managed to fall from her face, she quickly wiped her face before she called for the guest to enter.

“Your Grace.” Wolkan bowed in greeting. “The blacksmith has asked for us. It’s about the stranger’s armor.”

* * *

_A series of explosions rocked the very ground he stood on. To his right, he saw men from his own legion fall to a stream of lasers from strafing scout ships. To his left, he saw civilians in a panicked frenzy trying to flee the destruction until a tower that loomed overhead collapsed on top of them._

_Running through the death and mayhem, he proceeded toward the inner city. Fighting his way toward the Iridium Gate, he deadlocked the doors and began to record a distress signal of his own._

_“It’s me. I’ve made my choice. You’re right – no more.”_

_Completing his message, he sent it off to the open vortex. He knew that it would reach its destination. He knew because even as he assured himself that it would be received, he heard the familiar winding groan of an old and faulty Type 40 TT time capsule._

_And in the corner of his eye, he saw it. The blue box that had been seen so many times throughout the war as a herald of death. And out of it came him, the Warrior. The man who had decided to end the war, before it could lead to the destruction of the entire universe._

_“Captain.” The Warrior greeted him in his rasped and aged voice. “So, you’ve made your choice.”_

_“I have.” The Captain exhaled, as he stood unflinching under the scrutinizing gaze of his old friend. “Gallifrey stands on the brink. The Daleks cannot be allowed to win this war.”_

_“Then you’ll give me access to the Omega Arsenal?”_

_“Yes,” He nodded to the Warrior. “But there’s something else you need to know first.”_

_The Warrior nodded silently as the building continued to shake under the chaos of the attack._

_“The High Council…” He started, knowing full well the weight of the information he was has will bring. “… they have a plan of their own. A plan that will bring about an end to the war should Gallifrey itself fall.”_

_The Warrior only nodded, his expression stoic, but fear anchored in his eyes._

_“They’re calling it the Final Sanction.”_

…

The gentle creak of a door opening was enough to wake him up, it seemed. A dim light flooded his eyes as he looked around and saw that he was back in the same room and same bed that he had woken up in before. But instead of a steel-armored soldier greeting him with confusion, he was instead greeted with a young woman.

“Excuse me, sir.” She spoke carefully. “The maester asked me to check on your health.”

He blinked at her wordlessly until he looked down at her hands and saw a bowl of warm water and a cloth. As he moved to sit up right, he felt another damp cloth slide off his forehead.

“Oh, sir!” She exclaimed, setting down the cloth and bowl. “Let me help you up. Maester Wolkan told me that you shouldn’t try to move too much.”

Silently accepting the woman’s aid, he managed to sit himself up in the bed. Taking a look at his surroundings, he remembered how he had gotten here and the chaos that had come before.

“Where am I?” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re in Winterfell, sir.” She answered, placing her hand on his forehead.

_Winterfell? Where the hell is that?_

“Did I…” He started, unsure how to phrase his question. “… Did – Was I rude?”

The woman gave a small chuckle of amusement at his question. “Perhaps a little, sir. Although given that you collapsed into the Queen’s arms out of delirium, I can imagine that she would forgive you.”

“The… queen?” He asked hesitantly.

“Yes, sir.” She nodded as she grabbed the bowl and cloth and began wetting it to treat him.

Feeling absolutely drained from his regeneration, he let the kind woman treat him. He looked up into her eyes.

“What’s your name?”

“Jeyne, sir.” She smiled, a soft blush on her face. “Jeyne Poole. I’m the Head Maiden for the queen.”

“Hmmm.” He nodded slowly. “And who is the queen?”

“Surely you must know?” Jeyne asked, shock evident on her face. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you must have come from a long way, sir.”

He gave an amused snort at her words. “You could say that.”

“And what of you, sir?” She retorted, drawing back the cloth. “What’s your name?”

Opening his mouth, he halted. He had to pause to consider the question. He was sure of his own name… wasn’t he? He knew _who_ he was, in so far as he was confident that all of his memories meant. But he just couldn’t for the life of him remember what the accumulated series of memories that was himself was called.

 _What_ is _my name?_

“Do you remember your name?”

He silently shook his head, as he noted that his confusion seemed to be sparking hers.

“Does the name ‘Lannister’ sound familiar to you at all?” A voice seemed to take on a slightly nervous quality.

But that any reservations she had seemed to disappear when he shook his head.

“No, I’ve not heard that name before. But I know that’s not my name.”

“Do you remember anything about yourself, sir?”

“I do.” He replied softly. “I remember everything that I’ve done. Every joy and victory, pain and loss. But out of all of those memories, the one thing I can’t seem to recall is my name.”

Turning back to Jeyne Poole, who had appeared to have found herself to be completely lost by his description, he decided that it would be better not to spend too much time unsettling his hosts.

_Best not to earn the mistrust of a pre-industrial society, given that your stuck here for now._

“But that’s alright.” He continued, giving her a small smile. “I’m sure it’ll come back to me in time.”

It seemed to be enough of an assurance to calm Jeyne down, but he doubted it would be enough to ease her suspicions. Taking advantage of the momentary calm that had settled, he stretched out his hand to her.

“Jeyne, would you help me up?”

Giving him a soft smile, she took his hand and steadied him as he slowly removed the bed covers and stood up. Letting go of her hand, he slowly made his way to the full mirror that hanged on the other side of the room.

With a hesitant sway in his step, he slowly approached his reflection and was surprised to see the man staring back at him.

The first thing he noticed was his cheekbones. They seemed to be more prominent than his last regeneration, looking as if they could cut glass. The eyes were different too, a faint sort of azure. His body was slightly more slender this time, not as fully framed as his previous incarnations, but still retaining a fair amount of tone and muscle. And his skin was slightly more tanned than this time around.

But what caught his attention was his hair. It was jet black and straight, slightly longer on the top than the sides and parted on the side. What was odd however was a single gray lock, streaked across from the parting that seemed to border the rest of his hair. He ran his hand through it and scoffed at the sight.

_I must be getting old._

He took a step closer and really took the time to observe the details of his new body.

“The eyes are alright, I suppose. Not entirely sure about these cheekbones. But the nose is a definite improvement.” He muttered, critiquing the geography of his new face before looking down at his torso. “A bit thinner this time, though. I suppose I could get used to it.”

He ran his hands across his chest and felt the taut of his muscles as he felt the edges of his body. Placing a hand on his wrist, he felt the familiar double-pulse and noted that internally, his body seemed to be rebuilding quite well.

He gave a small nod of approval before turning to look at Jeyne who seemed to have her head down and eyes averted away from him entirely. By her body language, she seemed to have been put-off entirely by the nature of his self-critique.

_Damn. I forgot I she was in the room._

“Ah, I’m sorry Jeyne. I was only… talking to myself. I assure you, I’m not – ”

“S-sir.” She interrupted, still wide-eyed and looking away from him.

“Jeyne?”

She pointed downward. Following the angle of her finger, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Just the wooden floor and the carpet. There were also his bare feet, but besides that fact that one foot was flat, he doubted that they were so abhorrent.

Looking back up at her, he remained all the more confused as she remained pointing downward at _something._ It was his turn to be confused as his brow furled up in confusion. Then he realized that the faint blush on her face had now become entirely beet red.

_What has gotten into her?_

Lowering his head once more, the only thing that could’ve been out of the ordinary was that something had attached itself to his body. But a quick glance showed him that there was nothing on his body…

_Oh. There’s nothing on my body._

_Nothing at all._

His eyes wide and a soft blush beginning to form on his face, he sheepishly looked back at Jeyne.

“Jeyne?”

The handmaiden seemed to redden even more in the second it took for her to raise her head back at his face – and only his face.

“I don’t suppose, I could have my clothes back?”

To her credit, her embarrassment quickly evolved into amusement as she gave him a cheeky, but somewhat still flustered, smirk.

* * *

She kept the maester’s story in mind as she walked down the halls of Winterfell toward the castle’s forge. With her guards and Maester Wolkan in tow, she entered and asked the young apprentice at work if she could speak with the blacksmith.

“My Queen.” The smith bowed, wiping his head in a. concerted effort to appear more presentable. “How may I be of service?”

“The stranger that was brought into Winterfell this morning, I believe Maester Wolkan asked you to inspect the quality of his armor.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” He smiled slightly before turning into a frown. “I had been meaning to talk to you and the good maester about that.”

Turning around, he gestured for her and the maester to follow. Obliging, they walked further into the heated air of the forge before entering a small workshop. On a table in the back of the room, lay a coat of leather auburn armor, greaves, and helm.

“Your Grace,” The blacksmith began, gesturing to the assortment, “this metal work is unlike any I’ve seen before.”

“Metal work?” She asked, glancing at the armor in confusion. “I can understand the helm, but I had thought that this was a leather breastplate.”

“One would think so given the color and the texture.” He nodded, as he brought out a sword. “However, if I may demonstrate.”

With a nod, she beckoned the smith to perform his test. Bringing the blade up, Sansa stepped back slightly. She was curious as to what the smith was expecting to happen. After all, logic dictated that the hardened strength of a sharpened steel blade would make short and easy work of any leather armor. That was the logical conclusion and it was exactly what did not happen.

In one foul swing, the smith brought the sword down with all his might and was struck off balance as the steel blade had broken in two. One half of the blade flew back up toward the smith’s direction barely missing his head as it embedded itself in the wooden struts of the roof. The other half was still held in his hand.

Both Sansa and Wolkan looked at each other in total shock as they processed what had just unfolded in front of them.  

“That was my finest steel blade.” The blacksmith declared, tossing the remnants of the sword away. “I’ve used every single type of weapon at my disposable on this armor, short of Valyrian steel, and that was the end result of each test. And I’m not entirely sure myself if Valyrian steel would so much as scratch this.”

Placing his hand on the breastplate, the blacksmith shook his head in disbelief. “Whatever this armor is, wherever it comes from, I can assure you of one thing, Your Grace. It is not of this world.”

Sansa felt her face turn grim, as she merely received more questions than answers.

Walking up to the breastplate, her attention was drawn to the strange sigils on each side of the armor. They seemed to match the number eight, yet there was a quality to the symbol that seemed… _infinite._

_A house banner mayhaps? Or a symbol of protection?_

“My Queen.” A servant rushed into the room, interrupting her thoughts. “Forgive me for interrupting, but I was sent by Mistress Poole. It seems that the foreigner has awoken.”

“Is he still in his chambers?” She would prefer that an incident not happen again.

“No, Your Grace. Mistress Poole accompanied him to the Northern ramparts. She has asked for you.”

“He should not be out in the snow.” Wolkan interrupted from behind. “There’s a risk of his fever returning if he stays out for too long.”

“I’ll talk to him, Wolkan.” Sansa assured him, as she gave her thanks to the blacksmith.

Making her way through the dwindling activity of the castle, she saw a single silhouetted figure on the top of the North wall. At the bottom of the wall’s entrance, she saw her friend standing at a distance from the stranger. Jeyne spotted her before she could make her presence known and walked over to her.

“Jeyne. I see you’ve been welcoming our new guest.”

“I have, Your Grace.” She answered formally noting the guards on the watchtowers. “He asked for you.”

“I see.” Her brow arched in worry at the request. “Has he given you any trouble?”

“N-no, Sansa.” Sansa didn’t fail to notice the soft blush on her friend’s face. She would have to ask her about that later. “He seems to be recovering well, only…”

“Only…?”

“He seems to have no memory of his name.” She continued in a hushed tone.

“So he cannot remember anything of his past?”

“No, Sansa. That’s the strange thing.” Jeyne lowered her voice as she whispered to her. “He says that he can remember who he is and what he’s done, but not his name.”

It was frustrating just how much this man seemed to be able to hide himself away. Even the stranger’s own memory would deny her something as simple as a name. But before she could voice her thoughts, she heard a voice call out.

“Queen Sansa?”

She looked up from her friend and saw that the stranger had now turned to look at her from the top of the ramparts.

“Thank you, Jeyne. That will be all.” She dismissed her friend before walking over to him.

Sansa almost hesitated to walk further when she saw that the man appeared to be wearing nothing save for a massive fur blanket, his bare chest peaking out of the opening. The sun seemed to accompany her walk toward him as its final descent matched her steps. By the time she had managed to reach where he stood, the afternoon sun had fallen and gave way to the dark night.

Wordlessly, she moved to stand right next to him, her gaze following his own. The man, taking notice of her presence, gave a small bow of acknowledgment.

“Queen Sansa, I presume?”

“You presume correctly.” She bristled in discomfort at the way he seemed to balance informality with reverence. “I trust that your condition has improved.”

“It has.” He chuckled slightly for a moment. “I apologize for my display this morning.”

_So, his memories are intact. At least in regards to his actions…_

“There is nothing to apologize for.” She assured. “You were taken ill by fever and suffering from delirium. I know you did not intend to… behave in such a way.”

“Yes, a fever.” He seemed to snort in amusement. “That’s what had taken me ill.”

The way he seemed to regard the explanation as something less than fact served only to make her more uncomfortable than she was before. She pushed down that unsettled worry, in a bid to fight back the silence that had threatened to fall between them. After all, the more answers she could get from him, the better.

“Why did you wish to speak to me?”

Her question seemed to catch him off guard as he slowly turned away from the endless landscape of snow and addressed her directly.

“I need your help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus ends the second chapter.
> 
> I realize that as much as I love Sansa being Queen of the North, I have basically given her the world's most frustrating office job. But I suppose that's what it means to be the head of state...


	3. Wandering Words

**Somewhere between Winterfell and the Old Dreadfort**

Throughout the long and storied history of Westeros, the frozen fields of the North have seen its fair share of countless wonders that the common man would consider impossible. Yet amidst the millennia of struggle between men and monsters, there had never been a curiosity as powerful or as dangerous as the one that had fallen out of time and into one of the North's many caverns. And in the subterranean world within this cave stands the most powerful creation to ever stand on the planet.

In the darkness, jutting out of the rocks like a great stalagmite of bronze, stands a temple. A temple that looks like a spire but isn't. This powerful, not-temple shaped spire was remarkable in the fact that just 20 hours prior, it had not stood there before. This was owed to its creators who in fact had deigned to update their ships. For that was what this strange spire was, a ship. And despite its appearance, this ship could sail across stars, through the eons, from empire to empire, and upon endless cosmos. But from the smoke seeping through the entrance, one could tell that this ship was wrecked. However, no one could tell that this ship was dying.

Through the twin doors of this dying ship, lay the real wreckage. Fires still raged from where it crashed not too long ago. Loose wires and cables hung loosely from the ceiling and fallen on the floor, still giving off sparks of electricity. Debris and broken glass lay strewn throughout its rooms and tunnels.

And most chillingly of all, there was the loud and hollow ring of a massive bell.

A Cloister Bell.

* * *

**Winterfell**

As she stood on the torchlit snow of Winterfell's Northern wall, Sansa could only feel perplexed at the revelation made from the stranger in front of her.

"A ship?"

He nodded silently, with a hint of tiredness in his sway as he wrapped the fur blanket – which still remained the only thing he wore – closer around his body.

"And you want my help finding it?"

It wasn't often that Sansa would let strangers see her mask of composure fall apart, but the request made from the strange man before her was almost enough to do the task. Almost.

"Yes… Your Grace." She noted the discomfort in his pause. "I understand if you have questions given the… unlikely nature of this request – "

"You claim that an accident befell you whilst steering your ship to safety when you were found in a cave, miles from the nearest harbor. You claim that you come in peace and attack one of my guards and my maester. You have done nothing to earn my trust, yet you ask for it anyway. How can I  _not_ have questions?"

"Fair enough." He conceded with inelegance, his feet shuffling in the snow of the castle wall. "May I ask then, as a guest to your realm, how I may go about earning that trust?"

"By answering all my questions without speaking falsely."

He paused for a moment, his hesitation more than evident. "I shall endeavor to do so. But I'm afraid my answers won't as be as simple as you desire."

"Very well." She nodded stiffly. "Firstly, are you in service of the Lannisters?"

"No, Your Grace. I don't even who these… Lannisters are."

"They're a noble house in one of the southern kingdoms." She explained, analyzing his expression for any hint of falsehood. "My family have something of a painful history with them."

Despite Lord Tyrion's ascension to becoming the undisputed Lord of Casterly Rock, there were still elements within the extended Lannister family that still held her and the North in disdain for all the bad blood that had occurred in the War of the Five Kings.

"Oh, yes. I see the confusion. While I am a soldier, I assure you I don't fight for the Lannisters."

"Then why is your clothing and armor stained in their colors?"

The foreigner's brow furrowed for a moment as he tried to interpret the meaning of her words before he finally came to realization. "Those colors, while being the house colors of this Lannister family, coincidentally also happen to be the colors of my people."

"Your people?" She asked, further intrigued. "And you fight for them?"

"Who else would I fight for?" She noted the slight air of condescension in his tone.

"And just who are your people?"

"My people…" He opened his mouth to speak but paused as if he was enraptured by a memory. "… my people come from a very,  _very_ distant place."

"Just how distant, then?"

The silence that followed made Sansa feel more than suspicious. She didn't miss how he snuck a glance upward toward the darkening night sky. Under normal circumstances, she would've regarded the subtle gesture as a sign of hidden intent. But there was some disturbing air of wistful contemplation surrounding him, as he glanced at the field of stars for just a moment longer than most would. Turning back to her, the foreigner looked her up and down, his eyes seeming to read her with every bit of fervor as her eyes had read him.

"You speak of my lack of trust." He finally stated, shifting the focus of their talk. "Yet how do I know I can trust you?"

"We took you in to our care. We treated your illness. I have even granted you guest rights." She listed, her ire beginning to grow. "What reason should you have not to trust me?"

"I can recall briefly the look on your face during our first… 'encounter', for lack of a better word." He explained calmly, keeping his stance neutral. "The expression on your face was one that I've seen countless times before. You were afraid."

Sansa's suspicion slowly started to turn to unease as he made his claims. It was true that there was an element of fear when he had first collapsed into her arms. But surely that was only out of shock, or at least that's what she endeavored to believe.

Momentary glimpses of bright golden lights briefly flashed through her mind, warring against the foundations of her rational mind.

"But you weren't afraid of me." He continued, his boldness seemingly increasing with every word that passed through his mouth. She steeled herself, squaring her shoulders and daring herself to be as bold as him.

"Seeing as you know me so well," Her words biting back at his, "what was I afraid of?"

"You were afraid of what I represent: the unknown."

At his words, her mind couldn't help but wander back to all that had happened since his arrival. She could still feel the strange breeze that seemed to accompany the glittering lights that he had breathed from his hands and mouth. In just the last hour, she had witnessed the sight of a leather breastplate that could withstand the purest steel of Northern blades. It was no coincidence that Winterfell's recent abundance of peculiarities were all tied to the presence of the man before her. Looking at his expression, she could tell he knew that she was withholding more than she was willing to admit.

"If I am, as you say, so afraid of the unknown, why would I grant you even the slightest bit of hospitality?"

"Because you are the queen." His eyes gesturing to the wolf crown upon her head. "Within these walls and the kingdom beyond, you have the power over life and death."

He moved a step closer to her, his bare feet crunching in the thick snow.

"You don't know what I am, where I come from, or who I fight for. But you do know this much if I were to so much as to prove myself a threat, you could have me executed with a single word. For as long as I stay here, I am at your mercy." The Foreigner gave a small smile, seemingly bemused by the whole situation himself. "So, I ask again: why should  _I_  trust  _you_?"

"You should not, by any rational standard. In any other scenario, you would be a fool to do so." She responded, deciding to play his game. "Yet you do because, if the case of your predicament truly is fact, you have no other choice."

"In a way, you're correct." He conceded, showing no discomfort at the true disparity of his situation. "However, you are wrong in one respect, Your Grace."

"Oh? And what is that?"

"I do in fact have a choice. We always have a choice."

Silence had fallen between them, his words still hanging in the air. The wind had picked up by now and the torches of Winterfell had brightened in the wake of the darkening night. The Stranger had yielded more surprises than she had anticipated. Yet there was something all too familiar in the soft tones of his voice: hollowness.

The haunting moods of grief, misery, and emptiness were not uncommon among soldiers. Even among her most experienced of bannermen, the veterans who had served and survived the last ten years of war, were still affected by the blood they had shed in combat. But the sorrow she had glimpsed in the man before her seemed be to be felt not just for the actions of the past, but for something that had yet to come.

"So, you believe that your faith in my good will is reason enough for you to be worthy of my confidence?"

"Not exactly."

Rolling her eyes at his gall, she nearly spat back, "I have no patience for wit disguised as wisdom, especially if it yields no answers."

"You have patience yet enough for me, Your Grace."

"Do I?" She retorted. "If that is the case, it is surely running out."

"As is your opportunity for answers."

"And what makes you so sure that I require answers from you?" She bit back. "As you rightly say, I am queen. If I so wished, I need only say the word and you would be exiled from this castle and back in the wilderness. All traces of your mystery lost to the snows of winter."

"You're right on that account." He acknowledged with a curve of the lip. "But I know you won't."

"Oh? And what makes you so sure of that?"

"Your eyes." His sky-blue irises met her own ocean-blue pupils. "They're kind."

All at once, her confusion and irritation had mixed with currents of shock and warmth. It had been a long time since she had been the blushing summer child that had once dreamt of princes and romance, but she couldn't deny the odd feeling that struck her upon the so-called Captain's words. She felt a heat spread itself across her cheeks, and she couldn't quite tell if the blush was elicited from his compliment or from her outrage.

She quickly settled on the latter.

_The sheer nerve of this man!_

Whether or not he seemed to notice her reddening face, he seemed to have a gleam of mischief on his face as if he was toying with her. And with a smile on his face and an intake of breath, he closed his eyes seemingly in consideration of his next words.

"If you were truly unkind, my treatment and recovery would've been in a cell instead of a guest chamber." He expanded, keeping the slight hint of mischievous mirth in his tone. "If you truly desired me to be exiled, or worst, you would've given the order by now. And if you truly did not desire answers, you wouldn't have let me talk for as long as I have."

Turning his whole body to face her, he seemed to question himself a moment as he took a daring step forward toward her before concluding.

"Therefore, I can assume that no matter how confused or afraid you are about who I am or what I may be, you're too curious to let me out of your sight. And too caring to just leave me out in the woods to die."

Sansa allowed her mask of composure to melt, if only for a moment, to show just how irritated she was at the man's deductions. She had spent far too long being read, used, and taken advantage of by the worst of men during her youth. And to be analyzed as such, by a stranger, a foreigner no less, only left her annoyed at him for evoking those memories and at herself for feeling a brief shudder of despair at those awful memories. Memories that she had sworn she had left in the past.

And to add to this, the fact that all the emotions that she had managed to hide from the rest of the world under a veneer of calmness and leadership had been spurned by the realization that he was right. Recalling their initial meeting, and how he seemed to be on the verge of death only to be greeted with the shine of ethereal light that slowly billowed from his hands and into the air like frosted breath in the deepest winter, she realized that there was still some untampered curiosity in her soul. The kind of curiosity that had spurned her sister to sail the Sunset Sea. The kind that dared her brother to take the black. The kind that she knew was hidden in the deepest parts of her family's blood.

The curiosity of the wolf.

She must have remained in her thoughts for a moment too long, as the Foreigner's face contorted into a chagrinned frown before he stepped back slightly.

"I apologize if I came across as impertinent." He explained, his voice reflecting his apologetic stance. "But the more time that we spend debating the quality of my trust, the less time we have for finding my ship."

It was then that Sansa recalled Maester Otho's words earlier that morning. That this man was found outside a temple within a cave. A temple with an interior that defied all the laws of nature itself. She considered for a moment that this was the ship he was referring to. On any other day, in any other moment, with any other man, she would regard such a line of thinking impossible. But there was something about the man's presence that seemed to attract such impossible occurrences.

_So, assuming this temple is real, and it really is some sort of ship from the gods, how long before he is willing to admit as such by his own volition?_

"Then tell me this much." She replied. "Why are you so eager to recover your vessel?"

There was another moment of hesitation, as he stopped and stared off into the space just behind her, his eyes retaining a fleeting glimmer of what she may be inclined to call sorrow. She should know, given just how all too familiar she was with sorrow.

"My people are in the midst of fighting a war. As a soldier, I'm obliged to return."

Sansa silently absorbed the information provided. A part of her remained skeptical about him, but she could tell that there was some truth to his answer from the slight hitch in his voice. But the mention of a war brought some concern to her.

_Would his people's war manage to find its way to Westeros, to the lands of the North?_

"If what you say is true, why should I help you at all?" She inquired firmly. "How will I know that aiding you in finding your vessel won't lead my realm into being drawn into your war?"

"My 'vessel,' as you put it, is… of a more advanced construction than the ships you're familiar with." He explained calmly. "If any damage has come upon it in the crash, then the results could be potentially catastrophic to the safety of your kingdom."

She quirked one of her brows at his answer.

_So, he's not willing to admit it just yet._

"And if you're concerned about the war making its way to your people, you need not be." His eyes seemed to drift as he spoke. "It's very nearly over."

Despite reason telling her so, she wanted to trust him. After all, he seemed to be no more than a victim of events that lay beyond his control. And that's what made her all the more wary of him and his story. Her annoyance at his hesitance to reveal the truth was starting to eat at her, and she could tell that he was aware of it.

"Your Grace, I know that I've not been so forthcoming as to the details of my background," He started, "But I assure you, finding my ship is in the best interest of your kingdom."

She remained silent as she took in his plea.

_He's willing to reveal to an extent the true nature of his ship, but not entirely. Is that out of his own lack of trust or some malicious intent?_

She considered what he had told her so far. He had told her about his ship, the war his people were fighting. But all of those were shrouded in a veil of unclarity, told with the most oblique vagueness possible.

 _There is one thing I do know about him._ She stared into the Foreigner's eyes as a light snow began to fall around them.  _He does need my help._

But she was no fool. She wanted to reach the best decision possible for her kingdom, but to do so she needed to know more about this man.

_And the fact remains, do I want to risk knowing more?_

He seemed to stand up a bit straighter as she finally prepared to break the tense moment's silence that had fallen between them.

"Are you an honorable man?"

He paused, his eyes searching the stone parapets for his answer.

"I don't know." He looked back at her. "But I try to be."

Her eyes met his once more. The answer was rather less than she hoped for, but it would have to suffice for now.

"Then swear to me. Swear to me, on your life and on what honor that you do have, that your words are true. And that my people, my kingdom, will not come to any harm by aiding you in this endeavor."

Her mandate seemed to be caught in the air within the frost of her breath. Turning himself completely so that he was facing her, his back snapped into the attentive stance of a warrior fulfilling a command.

"On my life as a soldier of Gallifrey, on my honor as the Heir Custodian to the House Stillhaven, and on my oath as a defender of the Laws of Time, you have my word that no harm will come to you, your people, or your realm. This I swear to you."

Sansa Stark could only nod a she tried to make sense of his words, his promise, his truths.

_And I still have more questions than answers._

* * *

The large open grounds of Winterfell were certainly a change of pace for Otho. As a child, all he ever really knew was the vast fields and arid deserts of Dorne prior to his relocation to Oldtown and the Citadel. He had never seen snow before arriving in the North, and despite his near-death experience at the hands of the frozen wonder, he was still enamored by the sight of it. But he couldn't afford to waste any more time than he already had. It was uncertain how long the new wanderer would shine in the night sky before disappearing, and thus he was eager to begin his studies on the newest cosmological wonder.

Despite Maester Wolkan's warning that he should rest for the time being, Otho was determined not to waste another waking hour. Stepping out into the keep, he looked up to the night sky and could plainly see, dotted among the stars and constellations, the bright new wanderer that he was sent to study.

It was a cosmological wonder, not just amongst the Order of the Maesters, but for just about every curious mind in the world. Correspondences from the astronomers of Myr and Braavos had talked the unprecedented brightness of the new planet. News from King's Landing spoke of the new High Septon's ire at the presence of an  _eighth_  wanderer, as he was now facing a theological uproar of questions from multitudes of the devout. Merchants and traders from Volantis spoke of how the Red Priests and Priestesses had taken the appearance of the wanderer as an omen of coming strife. Rumors from his former liege lord, Prince Manfrey Martell, have stated how the poets of Sunspear had become enraptured by the beauty of the "White Spear", as it had come to be known. Whispers from farthest Yi-Ti had even spoken of how the Orange Emperor had proclaimed the celestial body as divine providence and proof that the gods had sanctified his claim to the Golden Empire.

_Even the smallfolk of Winterfell have taken to calling it the White Wolf._

Making his way to the library tower, he stalked across the snow-laden keep and stepped into the halls of the ancient fortress. His thoughts were already occupied by too many things to count already. On top of matters of the heavens, his curiosity had tempted him to consider the foreigner he had found in the cavern as well as the strange spire from which he came.

Fleeting recollections of red lights and belfry alarums struck at his memory serving to further the slight ache he still held in his head. Stopping just outside the door to the main library, he briefly wondered whether he had made the correct choice in disclosing to the queen about the mysterious spire.

_Only time will tell, I suppose._

His moral ruminations quickly shuddered out of his thoughts as the wooden doors of the library opened and he collided with someone else.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry." "I do apologize."

Their simultaneous declaration of penitence would have made him laugh, if he hadn't just collided with the person's head. Shaking away his dizziness, he could just make out through the faint light of a dropped lantern, the face of a young woman.

He saw that she was dressed quite well, so she must have been a highborn lady, or at least was in the service of one. Quickly, she dusted herself off and with an embarrassed expression began stammering out another apology.

"I-I'm so sorry about that. I-I wasn't watching where I was going, and I thought that no one else would be visiting the library at this hour and – "

"It's alright!" He exclaimed, almost shocked at the stream of consciousness that poured out from her. "It's alright. No harm was done, milady."

His words seemed to put some of her tension at ease, as she gave a small smile at his reassurance.

"You're Maester Otho." She started, taking notice of the ring of chains around his neck. "The maester that was found stranded out in the storm?"

"That's right." He gave a small grimace of embarrassment. "Clearly I failed to truly heed the words of House Stark."

"You would not be the first southerner to do so." She smiled back at him. "I doubt you will be the last."

He nodded in concession to her statement. Brushing off the excess dirt and dust from the floor, he picked himself up reached out his hand to her. With a grateful and polite smile, she took his hand and offered her thanks.

"Allow me to introduce myself," She blushed slightly as she brushed herself off. "Jeyne Poole."

"It's an honor to meet you, Lady Poole." Their hands already grasped, he placed a soft kiss on to hers. At her slightly deepening blush, a small part of him was slightly satisfied.

_I may have already taken my vows, but I've still got it._

"You're one of Queen Sansa's handmaidens?"

"That's correct maester." Her politeness now acting as a shield. "I was there when the search party had returned with you and the foreign knight."

It took a moment for him to register what she meant by foreign knight when he immediately recalled. "Ah, yes. The… foreign knight."

Recollections of wreckage and an impossible temple flitted through his mind.

"I must admit, I was a bit worried at first when he was brought into the castle." She admitted sheepishly. "What with him wearing Lannister colors and all."

He let out a small chuckle of amusement at her confession.

_May the Old Gods and the New help us all when the day comes that the Lannisters, of all people, have the power to create such wonders as the ones I've witnessed._

"I can assure you, milady, whatever that stranger is, he is certainly not a servant of the Lannisters." His assurance managed to set some hidden part of her at ease, given how a brief shine managed to glimmer in her eyes.

"That's surely a comfort to hear." She gave another small smile before bending over and picking something off the ground.

In her hands was a rather large tome, its cover familiar to him. Emblazoned in bright golden lettering, the title was one all too familiar to the scholar;  _A Song of Ice and Fire_.

"I must admit ignorance to the reading habits of highborn ladies," He started as she clutched the tome to her chest, "but I did not think that the works of Archmaester Ebrose would be on that list of literary interests."

"Did you expect for me to swoon over the pages of romances and mummer's tales?" She prodded, a hint of cheek in her voice.

"Of course not, milady." He returned in good spirit. "However, having read many of the Archmaester's works, I've found reading his books to be as much of a war as the events he has transcribed."

She gave small giggle at his description, having found a moment of ease amidst the tension.

"That's a horrible thing to say!" She exclaimed in a mock affronted tone. "Archmaester Ebrose is one of the foremost thinkers in the history of the Citadel!"

"Indeed, he most certainly is one of the foremost thinkers." His tousled hair bouncing as he nodded. "However, he is not one of foremost  _writers_."

She gave him a brief, exasperated look before replying in a rather unlady-like scoff of amusement. He couldn't fault her given that the topic of war was something that the whole of Westeros was rather keen to forget for a time.

"I will admit that his prose, while informative, leaves a lot to be desired."

Otho was barely able to suppress the laughter that dared to come out of his mouth. He knew that it was not the proper way to speak to highborn ladies, and the conversation so far still broke a few rules of formalities, but he knew that it would be far out of the realms of propriety to do such a thing in the presence of a lady of the court. He opted instead to settle for a bemused grin.

The silence that settled between them was brief, before he remembered what he had came to the library to do.

"Well, I suppose I should start on my work now." He nodded toward the open doors.

"Oh, yes! Yes." She began, flushing at what she must have seen as a total breach of etiquette. "I apologize, Maester Otho, for keeping you."

With out another word and her book still clutched tightly in her arms, Jeyne began to walk away. Some deep, inner gnawing at his head regretted making the decision to end the pleasant conversation he'd had with her. Before she was out of sight, his mouth ran ahead of his mind.

"Lady Jeyne!" Otho called out, her head turning to his attention. "Please, just call me Otho."

With a soft smile, and hints of a warm blush on her cheeks, she nodded before she continued off down into the hall and out into the night.

Letting out a breath that he didn't know he was holding, he pushed open the wooden doors to the library. While he was grateful for the brief reprieve from the turmoil of his thoughts, he still found his conversational skills to be quite improper. Being the son of a Dornish steward, he'd never truly refined the finer nuances of highborn conversation. Turning back to the task at hand, he began perusing through the various bookshelves.

Aided by torchlight, the rest of his night was occupied with thoughts of stars and planets.

* * *

**In a Cavern Between Winterfell and the Old Dreadfort**

The maesters of Westeros were somewhat ignorant when it came to certain fields of study. And one particular realm of ignorance was their knowledge (or lack thereof) of the subterranean geography of the North. No maester in the history of the Citadel endeavored to thoroughly study the various hot springs that were dotted throughout the North. And those that did, usually met a rather unseemly end. But for certain peoples of the North, knowledge of the hot springs came through tradition and self-study rather than the words of impotent scholars and their dusty, old tomes.

It was through this oral tradition of discovery that the Cult of the Unnamed had discovered the subterranean passages that linked the whole of the North. Stepping cautiously, the Bandaged-Eye Man carefully treaded his way along. He had spent the whole day he High Priestess's arrival navigating through the myriad tunnels that formed the underground cave network of Northern Westeros.

He was searching for something hidden amidst the caverns that would lead their brothers and sisters to the Light of R'hllor, according to Kinvara's words. She had gazed through the flames and by her words, she had seen the visage of a ship that had fallen from the heavens and had marooned itself somewhere in the caves. A ship impossibly larger than any in Westeros, or indeed the known world, that had somehow taken the guise of a spire. The conviction with which she spoke her prophecies still echoed in his head.

 _It will be from this impossible ship that its captain will lead mankind to the light and out of this cycle of darkness_.

Holding his torch up against the damp cavern walls, he could smell the acrid scent of chemical burning. Following the scent, he eventually stumbled across scattered wreckage and shattered stones. Traces of small fires that had since burnt out were littered across the cavern floor. And in the center of it all, the spire. It's series of jutting spikes gave it an almost demonic quality, and on the top, a sigil consisting of a series of circles and lines.

Walking up to the spire, one could make out the faint partition line of what must have been a door. With a mixture of reverence and awe, the Bandaged-Eye Man slowly brought his hand out toward the structure. With a hesitant calm, he gingerly placed his hand onto the spire. The warm hum that exuded from within only confirmed what the High Priestess saw in the flames.

The sound of feet shuffling caught his attention as the faint glow of torch lights greeted him from the direction of the mouth of the cave. Voices echoed of the walls announcing the arrival of strangers.

_"Are you sure it's here?"_

_"The machine will be here. Grandfather has foreseen it."_

Taking a risk, he pushed open the bronze door and quietly closed it behind him. Having hidden himself from the strangers, he kept himself silent. But any thoughts of disguise had soon become fleeting as he turned around and saw that he was not shrouded in darkness, but in light.

A glorious red light.

His mouth dropped open in wondrous surprise, his heart beating at the very sight of what lay in front of him. And echoing throughout the space, the metallic chant that seemed to act as a warning like the bell towers of White Harbor.

His mouth crooked up into a smile as he comprehended the sheer magnitude of it all.

_Impossible indeed._

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_Meanwhile, far away in the south in a broken city, a broken king hears the hollow ring of a cloister bell in his dreams._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Yeah, this chapter took a bit longer than usual to write up due to the constant changes in dialogue I had to do. Figuring out the dynamic between Sansa and my main OC was the primary reason.**
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> **Reviews and critiques are greatly appreciated so long as they're kept civil.**


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